


Surprise Kiss

by Syllis



Series: Kisses [7]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Aerik is a Golden Retriever Puppy, M/M, Oblivious, PDA is not the Thalmor Way, Surprise Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:08:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22880011
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Syllis/pseuds/Syllis
Series: Kisses [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1681696
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7
Collections: OC Kiss Bingo 2020





	Surprise Kiss

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Thanatopsiturvy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thanatopsiturvy/gifts).



“Tell me that I’m never that much of a pain in the ass.” Marcus took another mournful drink, and gestured at the two who were sitting at the small table up near the bard’s dais. It was blessedly cool in the Winking Skeever’s vast half-stone dining room. The place was nearly empty.

Marcus’ uncle merely grunted and tapped the empty bottle on the table: more ale. 

“Sorry,” Marcus said again. “I didn’t mean to let that get started, it was just another trip to the Bards’ College to see if they had new books and he--” Marcus glared at the yellow-haired Nord, whose voice was clearly audible all the way back here in Gulum-Ei’s old niche. “ was in there chatting up old Viarmo and glommed onto me. Never fucking shuts up. Followed me out, and we ran into Cyr on the way back, and then this guy wanted to try this I-don’t-know-what wine and then get supper--” his voice dropped to a wordless growl. “Made short work scraping me off.”

Ahtar traded bottles with the serving-maid and thanked her. He drew the cork with his teeth and spat it into his hand. At another loud burst of laughter, he glanced towards the far table, speculative rather than irritated. “Think it’s worth intervenin’?”

Marcus drew in his breath. “D’you think Cyr wants us to?” 

The bard’s hand wandered up the back of Cyrelian’s chair, going so far as to touch his clothing. Marcus winced, knowing the Thalmor Justiciar would not like that. From his gestures, Cyrelian remained happily oblivious. He continued to talk music. Lisette came downstairs with her lute and put it up on its stand. She nodded at Cyr and shared a friendly word with whatisface, who took her by the arm and drew her in closer. Lisette was laughing, too.

“Really? Really?? Am I gonna have to pry that bastard off my girl, too?” Marcus complained. 

“Nah.” Ahtar tipped his bottle up and drank, to cover his smirk. “You ain’t never gonna have to worry about that.”

“I don’t know these things,” Marcus groused. “I have to go find out. Wastes a lot of time. How the hell do you know these things?”

At last Lisette tossed her hair and laughed, and went back upstairs for her afternoon nap, giving Marcus a cheery little wave along the way, with a shake of her head. No, she did not want company. It was just too hot. Marcus sank back down in his chair.

“Move.” Ahtar shifted his own chair away a bit. “You was blocking my view. Ah--” he stifled his own laughter and fell silent.

Marcus turned to look, too late. So he pretended to have been looking for the server and turned it into a gesture for another mead. Dry and floral-fragrant, his favorite from Honningbrew. 

“I fail to see why you think this is so funny--” Marcus began, over his mug. “Oooh, he’s got him by the sleeve, this time.” He paused. “You really think Cyr hasn’t figured this out yet?”

Ahtar chuckled. “Nope.”

Just about then Cyrelian stood up and reached for the sticks one of the bards had left on the dais. He began to tap the rhythm out on the table, to demonstrated whatever-it was that he’d been talking about. Marcus squinted, trying to count the beats. Sea shanty? No, that wasn’t quite right. 

“That bench taken?” A Dunmer slouched into it without further courtesy. He also seemed to be interested in the goings-on at the far table, but maybe it was just that there was nobody else in the place to look at. Too early for supper, too late for lunch. 

“Fifteen gold it’s gonna end in a fist fight,” Marcus predicted.

“Fifty gold it ain’t,” said Ahtar.

“What the hell kind of bodyguard are you, anyway?” Marcus wanted to know, annoyed that Ahtar had interrupted his sport.

“The kind that knows when to fuck off and get a drink,” Ahtar said. “What’re you taking?” he said to the Dunmer.

“Ale will do, thanks,” said the Dunmer, surprised.

Marcus gestured up towards the table: “See there? The elf has no idea what’s going on.”

“I do see this.” The Dunmer put his hand up for the bottle and began to work its cork loose.

“This is the funniest shit I seen all week,” said Ahtar. “Look at that!” 

Cyrelian had flung himself forward in the chair to stab at something on the table for emphasis, narrowly avoiding the hand that had gone to cup the side of his face. He hadn’t seen it.

“How long has this been going on?” the Dunmer wondered.

“Little bit.” Ahtar was stifling laughter.

“To be fair, Cyr’s kind of drunk,” said Marcus. “Thanks, Sorex. No, thanks, two’s my limit on the mead. D’you have any more of the--”

A wooden chair crashed against the wall, and they all looked back over.

Cyrelian was on his feet and rubbing at his arm-- he was tense, but already backing off, at least until the fallen chair got caught under his feet to impede him. Sorex was already shouldering his way between them, not that it stopped the bard, who was still massaging his jaw and swearing. The bard charged right back in and got stiff-armed in the chest for his pains, hard enough that he lost his balance and sprawled back down in his chair, blinking and dazed.

“You stay there,” directed Sorex, his full attention on Cyrelian.

“It’s over,” said Cyr.

“Like fuck,” said the bard, getting up again, this time more slowly. Another torrent of profanity. Narrow-eyed glares back and forth.

“Outside!” snapped Sorex Vinius.

“Fifty septims.” Marcus held out his hand. The door to the delivery-yard slammed behind the two would-be brawlers.

“Mmhm. Double or nothing on the horse trough?” Ahtar suggested, in such a tone as to remind Marcus that he had his own personal experience with this same horse trough. 

“I saw it was all empty when I came in, so no.” said Marcus. “Sadly. Do we feel like getting up for this? Kind of warm out.”

“Prob’ly should.” Ahtar got to his feet with a groan. “Goes with the job an’ all.”

“Better pay me,” Marcus warned, but the door to the yard had already shut behind his uncle. He sighed. Guess he’d steal it back, later.

The Dunmer was looking him over, curiously. “Your friend?”

Marcus’ lip curled. “Oh hell no, that elf’s not my responsibility. My uncle looks after him.” He nodded at the door, so the Dunmer would take his meaning.

The Dunmer grunted. He went back to his ale.

“I missed what happened,” Marcus said, mournfully.

Quick flash of teeth as the Dunmer grinned. “Kissed him on the neck.”

“That’d do it,” Marcus agreed. He sipped at his mead, enjoying the quiet and the cool.

The door opened and Ahtar lumbered back in, looking disgruntled. Marcus winced as he hooked a foot to drag a chair closer to himself, making the wood screech across the stone floor. Ahtar dropped into it, heavily.

“Did you need to do anything?” Marcus asked. 

The perspiration glimmered against Ahtar’s dark skin and against the glass of the bottle he’d briefly held to his face. He drank. “Nah. Traded a couple of punches’n wrassled a bit. Gave it up to go down to the well district to get some water and sit in the shade for a bit. Too fuckin’ hot out to fight.”

“Bards,” said the Dumner, just as dismissive.

“Cyr ain’t no bard,” said Marcus’ uncle. “He’s a justiciar. They really don’t like being touched like that’n all that shit, the Thalmor don’t.”

“Huh,” said Marcus, at the Dumner’s sudden exit. “Bet that was a surprise.”


End file.
